Cracked
by Lady-Pyrien
Summary: Just how did the 2p!countries become who they were? So drastically different in personality, yet essentially the same upbringing as 1p! So how did this happen? What were the events happened that shaped them? Series of oneshots showing such events, 2p!
1. Romano

_Hello my loves~ I realized, while I've written a lot for 2p, I haven't actually finished any of it so I can't post it yet, but I really wanted to post some more. So here's the first installment of a 2p series where I show how the 2p countries came to be the way they were. Why they differ so much from their 1p counterparts. _

_It's mostly headcanon stuff and actually some will be very vague on the actual history taking place because when I looked at timelines, a lot of it didn't make sense as far as Hetalia is concerned. I did add in things here and there, so please don't take this too seriously now XD I did a little bit of research, so it's not making it all up! Anyways, please enjoy!_

_warning::: slight gore, 2p! (seriously, i don't want comments on how they are out of character again XD) _

* * *

_**Cracked**  
_

_**Smile: Romano's Story**_

* * *

Young Romano smiled to himself, looking up at his powerful and strong grandfather. Romulus was the most powerful man he'd ever seen! He had conquered a ton of land for the people he represented. His job was his everything. Romano couldn't wait to be just like him when he got older.

For as long as he could remember it had been him and his grandfather. But right now, they were about to be parted.

He adjusted his clothing and clung to his grandfather's arm. Romulus looked down at the child and smiled lightly, "You're my secret weapon today, Romano. Today we're finally going to expand further north into that Germania's territory. You will take his brat hostage."

Romano tilted his head. He knew his grandfather's enemy had several children, however only two lived with him. There was the child younger than he and the one older than him.

"Which one, grandfather?"

"The baby. With him in our hands, Germania wouldn't dare attack us. If he lost his legacy, he would be devastated. The future of his land would go down in flames."

Romano looked slightly confused. He'd been alive himself for a hundred years or so, but had not physically aged passed that of a six year old child. His mentality was a bit further than most his physical age, but was still that of a child. So the thought of hurting another close to his age seemed a little … barbaric.

"Do not mess up, do not let them catch you and do not go soft. You are of the purest Roman blood, my blood. You are the grandson of the great Roman Empire. You will not fail me, understood?" Romulus glared lightly. He loved his grandson, but he had to make sure this child could one day rule the empire with an iron fist.

Romano nodded. He would do anything to make his grandfather proud.

He was given a sword and was sent off into the trees. Romulus watched and smiled lightly. Now his real mission began.

Romano ran through the trees, shivering lightly as the air grew colder. He had to make his grandfather proud! He had to do this. He had to.

However, the child would never make it to his destination. He was ambushed thirty minutes out by the very man his father was trying to take down.

"Isn't this?" the man with long hair and dark purple eyes glared.

A few men walked into the clearing from behind him, "Who?"

"This child is the grandson of the man we're searching for." He picked Romano up by the back of his shirt and held him in front of his face. The fear in the child's eyes was evident.

The men grinned, "So what do we do with him?"

"First we render him useless. Maybe cut out his tongue or eyes. Then we use him to take down Rome." Germania growled lightly.

Romano felt a cold ice wash through his veins, "No!" he reached for his sword, but fumbled and dropped it.

Germania growled again and took out a hunting knife, which he used to cut a strip of Romano's clothing away. He quickly used the strips to bind the child's wrists and gag him.

"Let's find that man. It's high time he learn to stay out of our territory."

Romano's world spiraled out of control. He'd failed his grandfather. Now he found himself in the exact same spot the other child was supposed to be. He might die now. He might be slaughtered in front of his grandfather!

Tears ran down his face silently as they trekked through the thinned forest. The child began to hear the murmurs of men, all speaking Latin, which meant is was the Roman army marching through the forest. He wanted to scream out, reveal the position of the Germanic men, but he couldn't. He couldn't even save his people.

Everything after was a blur. He heard the screams of men, the clashing of metal, the smell of blood.

"Germania!"

"Rome!"

"Romano?"

Germania laughed as his men fought the army back. He held up the bound child.

"Thought you could get to me by using him to sneak into our territory? Really, Rome? You hate me so much that you would send your only grandchild into my land?" Germania grabbed the hunting knife and held it to Romano's neck, "Did you suspect that he would fail whatever mission you gave him? Did you suspect that I would kill him before your eyes? He may be like us, but his mind and body are not tied with loyal people yet. I could end the Roman's now. You will fall, he will be dead. We will take your land for our own!"

Romulus growled and his amethyst eyes glared as he grabbed his weapon and ran forward. Germania was forced to throw Romano to the ground as he engaged in battle with his mortal enemy.

Romano wanted nothing more than to get up and help his grandfather, but all he could do was stand and slowly move away from the battle.

Germania yelled out in rage as he drove his sword right into Romulus' stomach. Romano felt his world come crashing down around him. All he knew, all he had, fell to his knees before the Germanic barbarian. Blood spilled from his lips and down the front of his chest armor, which seemed to prove useless.

"I have won. Rome has fallen." Germania pulled the sword free.

Romano didn't stay another moment. He took off through the trees and didn't stop running until his legs gave out on him. He stumbled and fell into the dirt, letting the tears go. They ran down his face, blurring his golden eyes completely. It was over … his life was over.

His world turned dark as night came. The child shivered and his arms were numb and sore from the ties that held them.

"Oh god …" he heard a woman's voice. The child was lifted from the dirt and carried into a home where he was cut free from his binding. It wasn't too soon after that he found himself sleeping.

When he had awoken, he still felt the empty pain of losing his grandfather. It was a terrible pain. He let the tears fall. A woman walked up to him and smiled softly, "So you awaken?" she took a wet cloth and dabbed his forehead and cheeks, "I was worried when I found you in the dirt."

Romano turned away and looked to the wall behind him. The memories were still fresh in his mind. Maybe if he'd been faster or better at the job he'd been given … maybe if he'd let Germania kill him as a sacrifice …

"You've been through a lot, haven't you? I heard about the terrible loss we took yesterday … it's sad that a child was out there …" she whispered, pushing his light brown hair from his face.

He remained silent, even when she tried to give him something to eat.

"Little one, I know what you must have experienced was horrible … but here's some advice: Life is a terrible thing … we live, worry and go through so much pain … only to die in the end. Life is so short … we have to smile during the bad times, and enjoy what little good we do have." The woman smiled, "My husband died in a battle not long ago … he left me with nothing so I was forced to live way out here in the outskirts of Rome, but every day, there's a beautiful sunrise. Every evening there is a gorgeous sunset. If I were to live in mourning and regret, I would inevitably shorten my own life span. So don't worry, sweet child, life seems bleak right now, but if you just smile and take life on, living with no regret, you will be happy."

Romano looked at her, into her soft hazel eyes and thought over her words. They sat for what seemed like an eternity before he let a smile pull his lips.

The woman smiled as well and cleaned his face up.

He let loose and opened up to the woman, allowing her to take care of him while helping her out around the home. She showed him how to make beautiful clothing and what colors went well as well as what could be used to dye the fabrics.

A few years passed and she found it increasingly strange that he never aged a year, but grew smarter with the things she taught.

"Romano, sweet child, could you go clean up your mess from earlier?" she asked the child.

He looked up from the yard and nodded, "Of course, Domitia." He rose from his seat and walked into the sitting room to grab up the bowls of dyes she'd taught him to make. Romano balanced the bowls in his arms as he walked outside. He stumbled on the step and tumbled into the dirt. The water and plant mixtures fell down on top of his head and the bowls shattered around him.

"Romano?" Domitia quickly made her way outside to where he was, "Oh my … are you okay?"

The child merely looked up and smiled, "I'm fine, thank you. I'm just a bit … colorful …"

She helped him dab it off his face, "Well it seems it's only the lemon mixture that got you."

Romano laughed softly and ran his fingers through his hair, letting the liquid drain off the back.

Later that day, Domitia had him helping her in the garden. They laughed and joked, and enjoyed everything despite the bright sun. However, as night fell, Domitia couldn't stop staring at Romano.

"What?" he asked, pulling some cloth down from the clothing line and folding it into a basket.

"Your hair, sweet child … it's completely yellow!" she laughed softly. They walked inside and she handed him a polished metal disk. He stared at his reflection and gasped as she was right, his hair was as golden as those men up north who'd taken everything from him.

But … he liked it … it felt … more like him … a new him. He was now a different person. Domitia had taught him that life was supposed to be fun. What was more fun than living forever with that logic, right? He would live a very long time and have more fun than thought imaginable.

"Well … I like it!" Romano laughed lightly.

Around him and Domitia, the former Roman Empire was falling to pieces. The barbarians from the north were getting further inland. It was all going to hell.

Domitia died a few years after taking Romano in, leaving him alone again. However, this time he smiled, knowing that woman had changed his outlook on life.

He packed up what he would need before travelling north. He had also learned the secret to keeping his hair this color. Lemons that Domitia had imported from another place could be juiced and when he stayed in the sun, the mixture lightened his hair considerably from its usual dull light brown.

Romano took to the roads and traveled through the city of Rome. This was his city now, right? These were his people. They looked on him with disdain, most likely due to his hair color. He could easily blend in with the Germanic men that plagued parts of the country.

The boy knew where he was going. He was headed back to the small home he and his grandfather once shared. Hopefully it was still unoccupied. If not … he would smile as he kicked them out. It was his home after all.

Romano stepped up to the doorway and took a deep breath. He heard voices inside, but it wouldn't stop him.

Yet, the person the voice belonged to shocked him. His grandfather, while seemed older and worn, was leaned against a wall with a child a few years younger than Romano sitting in his lap.

The child had dark hair, with a similar curl to Romano's on the opposite side of his head. He turned and his dark purple eyes widened.

Romulus turned and his eyes widened as well, "Romano? I thought you had died."

"Me? I saw that Germanic man run you through. You're the one who was supposedly dead." Romano felt the dark feeling rising up in him, but Domitia's words soothed him and he smiled, "It's not like I care, though~ It seems you're alive now and I've been replaced~" he grinned and walked over to the smaller child, "Romano Jr?"

"Veneziano." The child muttered, looking up.

Romulus stared at Romano warily, having sensed the change in the child's attitude, "He's your little brother. I found him in a small village on the water up north. The Barbarians had run them off the land. He was born from there. I thought it was because the land needed someone to replace my supposed dead grandson. Where were you?" his eyes were quite angry and accusing.

Romano leaned against the wall with a piece of fruit in his hands, "After you were … defeated … I ran as fast as possible back towards Rome. I was found by a woman; she took me in and treated me like her child. When she died, I realized that even if I look like I'm seven, I'm still the next one to inherit this landmass. I had to return to Rome. It's who I am."

"Not anymore. You have to share it with your brother." Romulus sighed, setting the five year old child on the floor.

The elder brother shrugged, "That's fine. It's nice having a brother~"

"What happened to your hair? How the hell did you manage to change it like that?"

"It's nothing~ I just did, I like it, it makes me different!" he laughed, setting the fruit down, "Anyway, I'm going to take a small nap."

As the years passed quickly, Romulus disappeared completely one day, leaving the boys to fend for themselves.

It seemed like forever before the small family was ripped apart again. A rude man had come along and had taken the boys into his home, only to give Romano away, claiming that he was being taken into another part of the world.

He kept the smile on his face, even though his heart fell. What would happen to his land? Or even his little brother?

The man that claimed to own him was a dark entity all his own. The Kingdom of Spain. This teen seemed ruthless. He was physically fourteen, but had a heart already made of cold steel.

"You belong to me now. Austria gave you to me. You'll do my chores and do as I say. Anything you do that I disapprove of is going to be met with the strictest punishment. I run a tight ship, figuratively and literally. My Queen will be treated with respect." The young teen explained.

Romano just smiled, "You know, you should smile more. It makes life better!"

Spain turned to him with his cold lavender eyes. He said nothing as he left Romano to his own devices.

This country was much different from what he was used to. He was forced to learn Spanish to appease the stick in the mud, but he had a ton of fun messing with him, and the two other land masses he was forced to stay with. Belgium and Netherlands were brother and sister. Belgium hated the Spanish castle, hated the people around her and constantly threatened to kill Spain; while Netherlands followed Romano's thought process. Life was about being happy and loving. He was very touchy feely and happy all the time.

Romano found it enjoyable to tease Spain, but it mostly ended up in getting flogged. A smile. Just smile.

Through everything, the boy continued to smile and laugh.

Finally, a day that he had been hoping for came: Italy was being reunited. He would finally see his little brother after such a long time. He would be his own country, well … with Veneziano of course!

However … this didn't turn out as well as he'd hoped. The innocent child he'd left behind glared at him with intense hatred in his dark eyes.

"Great. It's you." Veneziano growled.

Romano laughed musically and draped his arm over Veneziano's shoulders, "Oh come now, little brother, you missed me! I missed you and your cute little face~ and look how big you are now!"

Veneziano shoved him away, "I will kill you." He pulled out a hidden knife and held it to Romano's face.

Romano grinned, "Well … how rude! Oh well … I can deal with it~ Love you, Venni~"

"Don't call me that!"

Romano came to enjoy life even more when easier ways to dye his hair and better designs in fashion were invented. He loved every aspect of life, including messing with his former boss, little brother, and his best friend, England.

No matter what hardships came his way, he just smiled. Even when it came down to killing anyone that stood in his way, he just smiled.

* * *

_Lame ending is lame, but It's not their full life stories, just the few events that shaped their personalities _

_Anyway, if you have a head canon event that made a character how they were, let me know and I'll see if I can incorporate or use it in their story! I'm always open to ideas and requests! Even story ideas!_

_~Lady Pyrien_


	2. England

_Oh ... oh me ... well .. this one is bloody and gruesome and may actually be disturbing to most people ... but this is 2p!England we're talking about ... I have to up the rating to M after this one -_- _

_This one is seriously worse than the first, so if you don't like gore and death, please don't read._

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_**Cracked**  
_

_**Love is the Poison**_

* * *

"Ahaha, oh? I have guests? You want to know how I became the way I am? I am afraid I'm unsure of what you mean! Would you like a cupcake?"

* * *

"Shhh, my sweet baby, don't cry." A young woman with long red hair spoke. Her eyes were a piercing ice blue, with pink spirals. She held her son close, kissing the top of his head as he cried.

"What's wrong?" she asked him softly. This woman wasn't just any woman. She was the great island of Britannia. She raised all of her children while also helping her land and people. While Britannia was a landmass, she seemed to be quite the pushover. When Rome invaded her land, she couldn't find it in herself to push him out and let it slide, despite the unrest it left with her people. When the Anglo-Saxons invaded, she found she honestly didn't care. It pushed back the Romans and gave her her final child, England.

"France made fun of me again." He sniffled, "He said I was worthless and would probably be conquered when you die."

Britannia smiled weakly, "Don't listen to anything he has to say, child." She pushed some hair from his eyes, which he inherited from her.

She noticed the smile on his face and she felt a twitch in her cheek. Britannia ran her fingers through his hair and helped him to stand up on his own, "Want to help me make some dinner?" she asked, taking her mind off of her thoughts.

England grinned brightly; "Yeah!" he grabbed his mother's hand and followed her into the kitchen. The two of them hummed lightly as they cooked something up for dinner.

The child watched his mother place some of the food on a plate. She handed it to him. England quickly began to eat the food, eating it as fast as he could. However, he didn't notice the twisted smile on his mother's face as she watched him, a small vial in her hands. She clutched it tightly until her knuckles were white.

"Is it good?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

England nodded; his messy strawberry hair fell over his eyes again. A loud crash rang out through the room as his plate hit the floor. He groaned and gripped his churning stomach.

Britannia's face twisted in a mixture of frantic horror and joy, "England, my baby?"

"My tummy hurts …" he groaned. He felt dizzy and sick. The contents of his stomach rose passed his lips and his world went black.

When he awoke, he was wrapped up in a thin blanket and clutched tightly to his mother's chest. Tears ran down her face, "Oh, sweet baby, you're awake! Oh, goodness … I was so worried!"

England was confused a moment later when she shoved him to the floor, "But you should have died!"

"Died?" he whispered, feeling confusion and hurt fill him, "But …"

She glared down at him. He fell silent, because she left the room.

England clutched the blanket tightly, but said nothing as he slowly drifted to sleep. The next few days were completely normal. His mother was all sad smiles and soothing voices. However the fifth day was a terrible one that England would always remember.

He watched his mother take some different types of plants and seeds and mix them up slowly, following some written recipe.

The entire time she mixed the ingredients, there was a wicked smile on her face, "England, get over here." She barked.

England immediately walked closer, "Yes, mum?"

"Don't call me that!" she snapped, her eyes frantic and her pupils small, "You shouldn't be here! You can't be alive! It's all going to hell and you shouldn't be here!"

England felt the tears welling up. His mother was supposed to be the one telling him that he wasn't all of those things … she was supposed to be the one that told him he would be a strong landmass one day!

"I've tried to be a good mother to you, like I was for your brothers … but I can't! I can't stand the sight of you here!" she grabbed a knife up and jammed it into her table. Her hair fell in front of her eyes, "Which is why you're going to make mum proud today and drink this poison like a good boy so you can die."

"I don't want to die …" England muttered softly.

Britannia suddenly screamed out in frustration, "No! You will be a good boy! You will die so that you won't have to witness to decay!" she grabbed the knife and ran at the small child. He yelped and took off running, barely managing to escape the tip of the knife.

"Get back here!" she ran after him. England ducked and hid in a small space under the stairs.

His mother took a few steps forward, "England, baby? Mummy's sorry … please come out … I'm so sorry …"

England gripped at his chest, his body shook and he felt fear like he'd never felt fear before.

"Please baby … I'm so sorry … I won't hurt you!" she pleaded, letting the knife fall to the floor.

He stared at it, then her. Tears flooded down her face.

The child crawled out from his space and into her lap, where he wrapped his arms around her, "Don't cry, mummy …" he whispered. She hugged him tightly and smiled weakly.

"My sweet baby." She ran her fingers through his hair, "I love you." Her fingers gripped his hair and jerked back, pulling him away from her, "Which is why I have to kill you …" she cried, "I don't hate you … I really don't … I just don't want you being exposed to the terrors of this life! You're better off dead!" she grabbed the knife.

"Mum, please!" he begged, his own tears falling, "Don't! Don't hurt me!"

Britannia smiled softly and kissed his forehead, "I'm doing it for you. I love you, England." She went to pierce him, but his little hands caught her hand and fought against her.

"No!" he yelled out, pushing her hand away, effectively causing her to drop the knife.

"England! Stop! Mummy has to kill you! I can't let you live … the world will take away your innocence … I love you …"

He ripped away from her grip and grabbed the knife, pointing it at her. His hands shook and she frantically crawled toward him.

England let out a horrified battle cry as he drove the knife right into her chest, spilling her blood all over himself and the floor.

Her ice blue and pink eyes bore right into his. Blood leaked passed her lips, "Eng … land … why?" she coughed and winced, "You killed me …" she never broke eyes contact with him, "This world will destroy you … I … I love you." Her eyes became dull and she collapsed on top of him.

England screamed and pushed her onto the floor before he scurried away, dissolving in sobbing laughter. The one person in the world he had trusted tried to kill him. He had to kill her first, right? He looked at her. Her eyes were still wide open.

He felt his stomach churn. His clothes were soaked in her blood, but he couldn't move. He couldn't do anything. Hours later, the child knew he couldn't stay there. He picked himself up off the floor and stumbled around the house, looking for anything he might need. England changed clothes, noting they were a bit tight, and packed a sack full of food. Before he had the chance to leave, his eyes fell on the bowl his mother had been mixing. Poison. Didn't she say that was to kill people? He figured it would be useful. He poured her mixture into a canteen and marked it. He also grabbed the recipe. Who knew when it would come in handy?

The child slipped outside into the early morning air. He caught his reflection in the mirror and gasped, seeing he'd physically aged a few years already. He now looked ten. No wonder his clothes were a bit tight. He sighed and turned back to the house for one last bit of business.

The flames crackled in the distance. He bit his lip and continued his journey to the town called London.

* * *

Many, many years later he found himself stepping onto the New World. He would make his boss proud and conquer the new area and make it all his. He would grow and shove it in France and Spain's faces.

The wind blew gently as he walked through the woods. A small feather in the tall grass caught his attention. It moved around a little and then popped up, revealing it to be attached to a child's headband.

The child had dark mud brown hair and lightly tanned skin.

England approached him, "Um, Hello. I'm the Kingdom of Great Britain, but you can call me Engla-"

He gasped when a small hatchet buried itself in his forehead. He pulled it free, much to the child's surprise and anger. As blood spilled down England's face, he laughed lightly.

"What are you!? A demon?" he yelled.

England laughed, feeling a twist in his gut. This child was simply … delightful …

"No, I am not. I am simply here to take this land for myself." He explained. It was different finding people on the landmass. He hadn't been expecting that.

"You can't! This place belongs to me! Ever since my mother died, this had been mine! So go away!" he growled.

"Oh?" England laughed.

After finally winning the child over, and winning him from most other hands trying to grab at him, he took to raising the young American.

He gave the child small doses of the poison, as he had for himself, to help him build up an immunity to the concoction.

After a few decades, America had become completely immune, which was wonderful~!

He loved America so much, as one would love their brother. America was everything he'd hoped he would grow up to be. He was strong and powerful, almost invincible! However, he was becoming harder to control.

Then … it happened … America broke free.

"What do you mean?"

"You heard me, fucker. I said I'm tired of your shit. You're bat shit insane and you want me to stick around and follow your orders like some puppet? Fuck that. My people are fed up with the fucking taxes. So guess what? We dumped that shit in the harbor. I thought you would have at least heard."

England looked into the man's blood red eyes.

"But … I love you … you're like my brother …" he whispered, dark memories resurfacing.

"And? I'm supposed to care?" America growled. He turned away, "I dare you to fight us against this. It would be in your best interest to just back the fuck up and let us go."

England felt his everything tearing to pieces. America was his favorite colony. One of his most prosperous … he couldn't lose him.

Anger boiled up in him, but it came to his face in a huge smile. Tears spilled onto his cheeks, running down over the corners of his mouth, "Then we will, poppet~ you won't break free." He laughed.

Unfortunately he lost the war. For about a year, England himself, distanced himself from the world he lived in. his mother was right. People would try and hurt him no matter what. Maybe he should kill himself? No … that wasn't fair. He deserved to live … it was everyone else that had hurt him! They deserve to die!

He let a wicked smile cross his face and he couldn't help but laugh. He'd killed before. It was no problem, but to kill the rest of the nations? He would be the only one left to rule the world, no? Plus, who wouldn't want to watch anyone writhing on the floor in agony as his poisons made their way through their bodies?

* * *

-Several Decades Later-

* * *

"Cupcake?" England asked the blonde he was sitting next to. The blonde turned to him, with a sexual smile.

"If I wasn't on a diet, love, I totally would." Romano smiled, "Autumn fashion line if coming out soon and I just can't miss that~" he laughed sweetly. However, another nation over-heard England's offer and snatched one up.

"They are so cute!" Netherlands took a bite, "So swee-" his semi-permanent smile faded quickly as his body began to shake.

Belgium freaked out over her brother's condition.

Of course, Netherlands survived, much to England's dismay, but that didn't mean he didn't keep trying to kill his fellow nations. Who could resist the sweet little cupcakes for very long?

* * *

_See what I mean? Kind of terrible ... what the hell is wrong with me? _

_~Lady Pyrien_


	3. France

_Whew~ Here;s the third installment ... once again, please be mindful this is 2p! and actually quite sad/disturbing ... this one is the ... one that probably requires a strong stomach to read. It's also kind of controversial. ... Next chapter will be 2p!Russia ^_^ that should be fun XD_

* * *

**_Cracked_**

**_White Lilies_**

* * *

She was unlike anyone he'd ever met. Even throughout his childhood, he had never come close to experiencing the joy he felt when she was around.

Jeanne d'Arc, patron saint of France, was a glorious woman who led many into battle against England. He would never forget her, nor would he forgive those responsible for her downfall.

France looked up from the crate he sat upon. He had heard of a supposed 'new hope' that they talked about all the time, but this woman was not what he had been expecting. In fact, she was far from it. France had seen many women in his lifetime, not that he had any interest in them. As far as he was concerned, women made men weak.

It drove men to succumb to desires that distracted them from the realities of life. Take England, for example. He fell too easily to his teasing words and instead of standing his ground, he always ran off to be coddled by his mother or whatever queen he was being ruled by. Women could bring no good …

She bit her lip softly and walked up, "Um … I'm Jeanne d'Arc …" she looked quite nervous, but comfortable at the same time.

"France." He muttered back, holding out his hand for hers. She raised her brow, but placed her hand in his and blushed slightly when his lips met her hand, "I've heard little of you so far. In fact, my king has so graciously left out every detail I thought would be important."

He sighed. France had not always been so depressed. He could honestly remember a time when he was a happy child, teasing his growing rivals, spending time with England before his disappearance into his own country. When Prussia went off, and then Spain … he was all alone. Then, of course, his crown was held by Britain. That was unacceptable. France should be ruled by the French!

That deranged man should have no say on what happened with his people. However, that plague … that had devastated his people. He could still feel the hollowness in his heart from all the people that suffered, and the people who haven't recovered yet from the mess.

He still remembered vividly that little girl's face as she stumbled toward him. She clutched her doll close with blackened fingers, blood dripping from an open wound in her neck.

France never contracted the disease his people were dying from; he only got constant headaches and fevers. Oh how he wished he'd died instead.

"What's your name?" he asked the girl, his voice soft and sad.

Her bright blue eyes lit up. He could bet that not many people went near her. France also couldn't help but wonder where her parents were, or if they had already died.

"I'm Joie." She muttered back, only sending herself into a coughing fit. France leaned against a wall and opened his arms to her. Joie seemed a bit confused, but crawled into his arms, seeking the comfort of another human.

"I'm France …" he whispered.

Joie looked up with a small smile, "Were you named after our kingdom?"

France nodded, "Yes, I was …"

"I like that name." she coughed again, obviously having trouble breathing. Joie began shaking violently in his arms, "Mr. France … I don't feel good …"

France bit his lip, wishing that he had the power to help her. He couldn't believe his people were suffering so much, "Don't worry, my little flower, everything will be alright. God has a plan for everyone and you are no exception …" however, he didn't believe his own words. He'd abandoned that idea long ago.

She smiled, "You think so? Mommy told me that God gave up on our family. She said we were all going to die … I'm … I'm the only one left." She explained, clutching onto France's shirt.

He felt how warm she was. Joie was burning up.

"I know I'm going to die, too … I see the angels that are coming to take me away."

France felt his heart breaking. What kind of mother tells her child God gave up on them? He looked up and into the streets that surrounded him. He heard the moans of agony and saw the corpses lying in the streets, flies attacking them until someone could collect them for burial. Had God really condemned his children to the Black Death?

He looked back down to Joie. She had closed her eyes, but her face was contorted in pain. He made it his mission to make sure she died happy, or even better, didn't die at all.

"Joie, little flower, tell me, what are you going to do when you get better?" he asked.

She opened her eyes, "I'm going to …" Joie thought for a moment, "I'm going to marry a prince and become a princess."

He smiled, "A princess, huh?"

"Yes. Then I wouldn't have to worry about seeing people die. I could just dress up in pretty dresses." She explained.

France smiled and wiped some sweat soaked hair from her face.

"You like pretty dresses?"

"Oh yes! Mommy made me a really pretty dress not long ago … I wore it on special occasions … but when I was picking flowers it got torn so I had to throw it away. Mommy got sick before she could make a new one …" Joie frowned.

"Oh? How about I buy you one when you get better? And then we'll go pick some pretty flowers." France hated seeing her skin turning black and her face so pale.

"That would be wonderful!" she smiled brightly.

"Do you have a favorite flower?" He asked.

Joie nodded, letting her eyes slip closed, "I love the white lily … I found one once, brought it home … it wilted a few days later. Mommy said it was because I had taken it from its home."

France rocked her slightly, "That's true, but sometimes it's okay. There's always one flower that you like that you can have, so don't worry."

Joie nodded, a smile on her face, "Thank you, Mr. France …"

"Anything, my little flower." He bit his lip and sat silently for a moment. However, his heart began racing. Joie wasn't stirring anymore.

"Joie?" he whispered, lightly shaking her. The child remained unresponsive. He placed his hand against her forehead and found it cooling rather quickly. "Joie?"

It was no use, France realized. She was gone. Tears fell from his eyes as he clutched her close, hoping the plague would take him next. So many innocent lives had been taken! His people were suffering! Where was God now? Where had he been when his people were suffering?

He began sobbing even harder.

"Sir …" he heard a voice above him. He glared up at one of the men in charge of collecting the dead.

"No!" he yelled out, "You can't have her!"

"But-"

France grabbed a knife and held it up in shaking arms, "You won't touch her!"

The man bit his lip, nut only nodded and walked on. It was probably for the best. France rested back against the wall and looked down at her face. Despite the dark skin covering her neck and part of her jaw, she looked like a little angel.

Two hours later, France found himself placing the small, cloth wrapped body into the ground. His chest was numb, his fingers cold, and his face dry. He was no longer able to shed a tear. A life, barely begun, had left so early.

Once she was properly buried, he placed a single white lily on the grave. It was her favorite, after all …

France shook the memory from his head. There was no use thinking of her now. He was in the middle of trying to defeat England.

"I asked if you were okay with that?" Jeanne spoke.

France raised his brow, "With what?" he mentally cursed himself for not paying attention.

"With me being a woman. I know it's a tad strange, but I know it's my destiny to lead France into victory." She spoke with such vigor.

"It doesn't bother me. I just don't understand why you would want to be in the heat of battle when you could be wearing beautiful dresses and picking flowers." He spoke softly.

Jeanne laughed lightly, filling the air with such musical sounds, "That's never really been who I was. When I was little, I was visited by holy spirits. They told me I would be the one to lead France into victory and drive away the English. It's the word of God."

The man froze up at that word. His people flourished thinking and hoping and praying to God, but he'd stopped believing a long time ago. He wasn't about to crush her thoughts and dreams, but she was full of it.

Months passed and turned into a year. Slowly this woman, driven by God's supposed word, had wedged herself into France's heart. Her words were inspirational, even to him. He'd long since lost hope for humanity, but she was restoring that in him.

Needless to say, the man, who held a firm belief that he would never find anything worth wile about a woman, had fallen in love.

It was a clear day, beautiful and calm. He sat with her at a stream. They were surrounded by wildflowers and chirping birds. It was a most gorgeous day. The perfect day to confess to the most amazing woman one man could ever meet.

France played with a white lily in his hands. His thoughts were drifting to a sweet little face that had blinked out so long ago, but maybe … just maybe … God was real and had given him someone to help ease the pain he carried. Jeanne made the numb feeling go away. He felt warm near her.

"Jeanne," he began, gaining the woman's attention. She pulled her fingers from the cool water of the stream, "Yes?"

"You … I had my doubts about you at first," she frowned, looking slightly offended. He offered a smile, "But the truth is, if anyone can help us, help the country of France, it's you. Jeanne, I love you. I just want you to know that I am behind you in everything you do. I will protect you and I want you to know that France is truly grateful to you."

Tears welled up in her eyes and she smiled. A moment passed before she threw her arms around him, "You are the sweetest man I've ever met!" she kissed his cheek, "I love you too, France."

For the first time in a very long time, France felt his heart leap for joy. He let a genuine smile come over him. He kissed her lips softly. That was all he truly needed from her.

They spent many happy months training for battle, talking and just being around eachother. He treated her like a queen and even let her talk him into believing again. For someone like her to be placed on the Earth, there had to be a higher power.

It was a joyous day! They were winning! Reimes had opened their gates to the army! Things were looking up for France.

France looked at Jeanne as she stood next to him. It had been a few days since the coronation and things were calming a bit. He couldn't imagine life without her. She had changed everything, even him.

He grabbed her hand and kissed the flesh, "Still beautiful." He smiled lightly when she hugged him tightly.

"Jeanne …" he whispered in her ear as the wind blew gently, "Marry me." Something in him told him that marrying a human would end in tragedy when she died, but he shook it off. She would live the best life possible and he would hold her up and make sure she was always happy, no matter what. That way, when she did eventually die, she would have been completely happy.

Jeanne pulled back and looked into his eyes, tears brimming, "Are you serious, France?"

His heart skipped a beat and he nodded, "I can't live without you, Jeanne. I want to marry you and make you happy." He realized he would have to tell her exactly what he was.

The woman laughed as tears rolled down her face, "You already make me happy! I will! I will marry you!" they embraced and she sobbed happily into his shirt.

They couldn't be happier. At least, until May came. They were in Compiègne to help defend against the English.

France had turned his back once to slam his sword down onto an enemy. He heard her yell for retreat. He turned to see her directing the men out into the woods. They listened and quickly evacuated. However, she wasn't going with them. Suddenly, she was surrounded. The men demanded her surrender.

France watched from his distance as she yelled that she would not. He tried to get to her, but she was captured.

It seemed like forever had passed and the king refused to do anything. France decided to take thing into his own hands. He headed into the enemy territory.

He knew exactly where she would be kept, however something caught his attention. A crowd surrounding another small group, one of them was the psycho himself, England.

"We're gathered today, the thirtieth of May, to execute this woman for heresy!" one of the men yelled.

France's blood ran cold. "No …" he whispered, drawing his hood further up on his head before rushing through the people.

His worst fear was coming true. Jeanne was tied to the large stake. England glanced around, that unusually large smile gracing his face. Their eyes locked and England seemed to smile larger than thought possible. He waved by wiggling his fingers.

France tried to push passed a few more people but it was too late. A huge blaze sprouted from his love's body.

"No!" he screamed, trying his hardest to get through the loud, thick crowd.

Jeanne winced in intense pain, but caught France's eyes. Tears spilled over, but she smiled. His heart froze.

She mouthed, 'I love you, France'.

He felt his heart shatter as the woman tried to hold back her pain and agony. France could only watch as the woman he loved was killed. To make it worse, as if England wanted him to suffer more, they raked out her remains only to burn her again.

By the third time, France had left. He had failed to save her, like he'd failed to save Joie. Both died such horrific deaths. Jeanne was supposed to be different, though! God had sent her to do her mission! So why did he let her get killed? What God would send such a beautiful flower to die?

He let out a scream of agony and slammed his fist into a wall. The world would burn for taking Jeanne away from him. His chest was numb again, his heart frozen completely without the warmth of his Sun to defrost him.

"Aw, Francey~ was she important to you? I do so love a good burning, though~" a familiar voice came from behind him.

France turned around, "Go to hell. You and everyone else on this Earth will die a horrific agonizing death."

"Is that a promise?" England laughed, "So did you enjoy the show?"

That was it, the last straw. France pulled out a dagger and lurched himself at the man with strawberry hair. The knife was embedded in England's shoulder, but the man only let out a cackling laughter, "Give up, France, I'm stronger than you now~ your little Devil woman is dead! And guess what? We killed her~"

France pulled the knife free, but it was knocked from his hand as England kicked him. The man groaned in pain and pushed himself up on his knees to clutch his throbbing ribs. He was kicked to the ground, "This isn't over, poppet~ We will win and then I'll make sure you die~ You can join that witch in Hell~"

"Go die." France whispered, no longer feeling the fight in him. It expended too much energy to attack him head on. He would figure it out eventually. He would figure out how to kill another nation and then he would take solace in killing England.

Since her remains had been thrown into the Seine, he found himself without someone to bury, but that didn't stop him from setting up a marker right beside Joie's. In his hands was a large bouquet of white lilies and a small package.

"Jeanne … I'm so sorry … I failed … I failed to protect you, I failed to save you … I'm so sorry … I will kill him and get revenge." He whispered placing the flowers between the graves.

He reached into a bag and pulled out a beautiful little dress and set it on Joie's grave marker, and then he sat in front of the two.

France sat, his hands folded under his chin. His mind drifted to Jeanne and Joie and then to the many possible ways he could kill and be killed.

* * *

_Well? I told you ... it was really hard to start writing this knowing I would have to write in the deaths ... but it got easier to write and I think this one is the best so far because everything clicked and came together without me really trying ... _

_~Lady Pyrien_

_up next: 2p!Russia_


	4. Russia

_OMG! You have no idea how hard it was writing this ... I know very little about Russian history and I have AshMeowsYaoi for everything she helped me with! She definitely got me on the right track with the information I needed. Okay, so I started making this, and I started thinking about the opposite of 1p!Russia. Russia is psycho, in a special way. He's more childish and seems to view warfare with rose colored glasses. It's all a game to him, as is his obsession with making friends. He's frightened of his little sister and wants nothing to do with her. And he also seems to do everything he either is told to do or wants to do. _

_SO 2p? I think he would be less childish, much less. Grown up from a young age, adores his little sister and very mistrusting. He seems to be less likely to kill for fun, but rather necessity. He's a bit of a rebel, but not a psycho._

_The history is a bit scattered and vague. Like I said, it was very difficult learning an entire history lasting several centuries in a few nights while writing it at the same time. Not to mention I had to look up the histories of Ukraine, Belarus, Mongolia (and the Mongol hordes), Lithuania, Poland and even search the entire internet for the smallest little details I needed. Like I said, I owe a lot to AshMeow!_

_Also, this is not edited. I really am tired and don't feel good. Please enjoy ^_^_

* * *

**_Cracked_**

**Name**

* * *

Icy cold wind battered at the three, sitting in the snow. The eldest sister clutched onto the younger of the two, whispered soft words to them, hoping to make them feel better. The middle child, pulled against the older sister, whimpering softly. That is, until the sound of horses began to close in around them.

The older sister, Kievan Rus, stood up. Her dark red hair was tied and braided against her head, but the loose bangs in front of her eyes blew in the snowy wind.

"Wh-what do you want?" she yelled out.

The men stood before her, but said nothing in anything she could understand. Her siblings huddled behind her in fear. It was her job as the oldest to protect them and make sure their landmasses grew large and powerful one day.

Her brother, who she knew was tied to the land further north, where it snowed nonstop, had no true name. He housed many different peoples within him, none truly owning the area. The younger sister also had no name. Kievan Rus even went so far as to think she would never be tied with the land and would eventually just be a part of her or their brother.

The girl clung to her older brother, burying her face into his torn coat.

A younger man walked up. He had long black hair, braided back a long way down, "You're like me. All three of you." He stated in the language of the nations.

Kievan Rus nodded, but didn't take her eyes off the man. There was no way she would trust him. She had heard of them before. These men were surely the Mongols.

"We will kill you three if needed, but you three could potentially be of use." He turned to a man and barked out something in his own language. Another of the men quickly darted forward on his horse and ripped the young boy out of his sister's hands before the group of men raced off into the distance.

The nameless child screamed for his older sister's aide, but she tripped in the snow following after him.

He cried. There was nothing he could do. He was lost and confused, scared and frightened. The man with the braid sat in front of him and offered him some food, "Here. Eat. We will not hurt you, or your sisters. You are valuable since you are tied to the land.

"We are going to train you how to fight and defend yourself, but you will know that we own you. Your people will pay taxes to us and let us use your land."

The child nodded and ate his food silently. For as long as he could remember, it had just been he and his sisters. They had been all her knew. His heart beat with a few lives he could feel across his land, but sometimes he hurt. He felt like his people were being hurt.

Maybe this could help him.

"Okay …" he muttered.

The child then spent the next few years learning to fight from the man and soon enough he ran away. Who was he?

The people he met along his travels seemed disgruntled and angry.

He later learned he was being called the Tatar-Mongol Yoke. He didn't like the name, but it showed that he was owned by the Mongols.

He hated it. He hated being in their grasp. He didn't know what had happened to his sisters, his people suffered and were too weak to fight back.

It was a mess!

He glared out into the streets of some small village as people walked through the snow. They could barely sustain themselves. Other of his cities were falling, some had completely given up trying to rise again.

The boy ran his fingers through his dark hair and sighed, leaning against a wall. There had to be a better way of life. Yeah, postal roads were being built and they were learning how to better their armed forces, but still … they couldn't control who took up leadership and they were basically nothing in their eyes.

He kicked the snow up and looked around.

It wouldn't be long until he was even more of a nothing. Deciding to take a walk, he wrapped a ripped scarf around his neck. It would need to be fixed soon, but he knew next to nothing about sewing. He pulled a hat tightly down over his ears and stepped through some snow covered trees. His minds wandered to his sisters. What were they up to? Had the little one found her name yet?

Probably not … he would have heard of her. What of his elder sister? She could be such a pushover sometimes, even a bit of a cry baby.

He let out a soft sigh. They had been the only thing keeping the loneliness at bay, but now he felt the cold chill of emptiness grabbing onto him. Maybe he could make a friend?

It was strange, that he would run into a stranger his age as soon as he broke through the tree line. The child stood on what seemed to be a bridge. He looked up, distrust in his eyes. The dog at his side began barking.

"Oh, hello." He spoke, "You are a country, like me?" he asked.

"Hello. And yes, I am the Tatar Yoke …" he whispered back, hating the name. More distrust and fear rose in the child's eyes.

"You don't say. I'm the Grand Dutchy of Lithuania."

Maybe this Lithuania could become an ally to fight off the beasts that ruled his land? It seemed like a long shot. What country or kingdom would side with him, knowing that they were weakened and in the worst position to win such a war?

Silence stayed over them for a while.

"You know, standing here, we will freeze." Lithuania muttered, never taking his eyes from the child in front of him.

The Tatar Yoke looked down at the snow covering his boots, "I know. Where I live, it's very hard to live and it's not getting any better. I need to become a stronger country. I will big strong and powerful."

Silence overcame them once again.

Finally, Lithuania broke the silence, "Is that so?"

He nodded, feeling a bit of harshness in Lithuania's voice, "Yes. And when that day comes, I will rule far more than the Tatar ever have."

With a large gust of wind at his back, he turned and began running off into the trees. That hadn't gone the way it should have. He probably should have worked a bit harder on settling a good relation between them, to become friends.

Days since his incident with the Grand Dutchy of Lithuania had passed and he had barely slept at all. His mind was too far hung up on his own words. He would rule far more than the Tatars … he just had to. Then he could keep his sisters safe.

Time passed rather quickly not long after. His name seemed to be changing. With the Mongols losing their power slowly around them, the city he lived in was rising. A man named Daniil Aleksandrovich really made a difference. He was the start of what would change Tatar Yoke for the better.

Things were moving quickly. He gained a new name, one he felt was better for him: The Grand Dutchy of Moscow.

He'd also revealed himself to his boss, Ivan III.

"You mean to tell me you are an immortal being tied to this land?" Ivan III asked, shifting himself. He looked over the teen with dirty clothing, tattered and useless.

"I am. I've been here for hundreds of years and will continue until long after you die. I was here when the damn Golden Horde took over." The teen explained.

Ivan III looked him over with scrutiny, "I find it hard to believe that a mere child can be immortal and be tied to the land in which he inhabits."

With a sigh, the dark haired teen shifted his weight to the other foot, "With all due respect, I don't need your belief. I can surely prove what I am in many ways. Including that you cannot kill me short of obliterating all of the territory you claim as yours."

He sat for a few minutes before letting out another sigh, "You have guts, child. Even if your claims are false, you may be of use to be."

So began his rise to power as a great nation. It wasn't until two generations later that not only did his bosses begin to learn the truth in his words, but the power of having him by their side. He could feel the state of the nation and the people, giving them an insight into what was going on.

However, not every boss took advantage of that. Ivan IV was one such boss. His father died when he was only a baby, but that didn't stop him from taking the throne and declaring himself Tsar. Now, while the name had been floating around, this man was particularly good at expanding land and waging war.

The downside to this man, the really huge downside, was that he was a cause of great pain for who was now being called the Tsardom of Rus. Tsardom, not particularly fond of the name, hated this man. He was sure the people weren't fond of him either. Especially, since they were dead.

He was constantly in his room, supplied by his first real boss, aching, fevers, and pain in his heart. If he had known such horrors would have become his people, he would have never trusted those humans.

Luckily, that horrid creature died of a stroke. His successor would not have been His first choice. He held very little interest in the nation and seemed more interested in prayers.

It was after he went, heirless, that everything went to hell. The nation fell into chaos, civil war and many tried to take the throne.

It was during this time the pain became too great and he needed a break. His travels led him to a small cottage in the middle of nowhere. There was a young girl sitting on the ground, melting snow falling from trees around her. Her fingers dug through the soil and she smiled, finding something she had been looking for.

However, she looked up and squeaked, "Sister!"

An older woman with short dark red hair ran outside, "Wha- you …"

He felt his heart twist lightly. He thought it impossible, but there his sister stood. The younger one ran up to her.

"I see you're doing well." He spoke.

The elder sister grinned, "We are doing okay. Not as good as you. I hear about Muscovy all the time. In fact, the most prominent news we've heard as of late was …"

"Yeah, yeah," he muttered, walking up. He wondered how long ago it really was that he'd seen them.

His elder sister rolled her eyes, "A lot of what has been going on in that land of yours has been affecting me! Did you know I've lost a terrible amount of land to these pathetic people who surround us? It's been hell."

He found his heart hardening with each word. It wasn't his fault. He'd only wanted what was best. It seemed that he could trust no one. Not even his own sisters, whom he'd missed more than anything since their initial separation.

"I get it. You blame me. I won't say I'm sorry. I've done nothing. I've been given no power over my people, or my Tsardom. So I'll be going now." He turned away. If he couldn't trust family, and he couldn't trust his people, could anyone be trusted.

Cold hands grabbed onto his. He looked down into bright eyes of his little sister. She smiled brightly, "Come look at what I grew! Kiev doesn't think it's cute, but she's been grumpy lately!" she pulled at him, "Come on!"

He followed her. She hummed a little song and led him around the cottage, much to Kiev's chagrin.

In a small patch of dirt, there was a wilted flower, killed by the snow. She ran over to it, "It's not pretty right now, because of winter, but when it gets warmer out, it looks just like the sun! Oh, and guess what? I got a name! I'm Minsk!" She laughed lightly, "Apparently, it's been my name all along!" her face fell, "But … big brother … we're in hiding … I haven't been to my land in a very long time … Lithuania took over it and shares it with Poland …"

He bit his lip, having no idea she was going through hard times as well. Maybe one day, he could take her land back for her.

The young girl looked up and smiled, "I'm glad to see you again, big brother. It seems as though things might be getting better."

Her smile is what drove him to go back to his own land and wait out the troubling matters. It turns out, that was what was best. With things finally coming into place, he focused on trying to help his new rulers, the Romanovs.

They were weak, but most importantly, during their rule, they conquered some more land, once owned by Lithuania and Poland: his sister.

An alliance was made between the two leaders and his sisters moved in with him. Kiev seemed on edge all the time, while Minsk was constantly outside playing or admiring Moscow.

It seemed things were looking way up.

It stayed that way well into his final name change: Russia.

Russia was a strong name. It was derived from his roots and represented everything he was and even better that his nation was growing quickly.

Another century passed and he'd conquered so much. While the way things were run was always changing, he'd never seen someone take total control over everything his people did. If there ever was a man who made his trust fade, it was Joseph Stalin.

This man made life hell for his people. He constantly insulted Russia, himself, blaming him for being so primitive.

Russia leaned against a wall, glaring across the room at the man. He looked over a few maps and then up at Russia, "What are you staring at?"

When the nation said nothing, Stalin sighed, "You know we have to do all of this. This land is so far behind everyone else. The people would suffer far more if they didn't have the same advancements that everyone else has."

"They are suffering now."

"They will thank us!"

Russia stood straight up, "No, they will hate you."

Stalin glared at him, "You will thank me." He stormed from the room, leaving Russia with his thoughts. The dark haired man let out a frustrated yell and walked from the building. His anger rolled off of him in waves. People avoided him at all costs.

Well, except for one.

Going by the name Belarus now, a young woman came running up, "Big brother Russia!" she grabbed his arm. Unfortunately, that was the wrong move for such an angry man. He ripped from her grasp, knocking her to the ground, before letting out a loud roar.

The fear in her eyes caused him to sober up from the anger immediately, "Belarus …"

She pushed back on the ground before running off, dropping a wrapped parcel. He picked it up and felt his heart breaking in two.

'To my wonderful big brother, for taking us in and saving us. Thank you!'

Russia ripped into the package and found a brand new, handmade scarf. He felt awful.

Trying to find her proved to be useless. He finally gave up and sat down on a bench. The only person in this world he trusted and he'd ruined it.

"You messed up big time." He turned to see his older sister, now called Ukraine.

"Yes, bore into me. I deserve it. I didn't mean to take my anger out on her." He glared.

"Oh, I would, but I'm too busy trying to feed my people. We're suffering, you know? Famine, fighting, and unrest. It's your entire fault, and for some strange reason, Belarus wanted to be around you all the time and you messed that up, too. Good job. I hope you're happy."

Russia mulled over those words for a few moments, "I'm never happy." He sighed.

It was a statement that remained true for many decades after. He got into trouble and still couldn't trust a soul. Belarus never spoke to him again, choosing to break away from him shortly after Ukraine. Everyone left, leaving him a huge, drunken mess.

* * *

_Whew! This took a long time, but I'm glad I did it ... I really learned a lot and have a huge respect for Russia. That country had been through a lot in the past. _

_~Lady Pyrien_


	5. America

_Shortest one so far, but writing this character came a bit easier to me than most -_- I guess it's because I was spoon fed this history my entire life? oh well, either way, Thank you again AshMeow for letting me bounce some ideas off of you! You've been a great help ^_^_

_Now for America. I honestly don't see 2p! America being a psycho killer ... The more I write these, the more intricate 2p becomes. They aren't all killers or psycho, just exact opposites. _

* * *

**_Cracked_**

**_War_**

* * *

You'd think he would have turned out a bit better, being raised by such a regal country of England, but you would be wrong.

America, or more formally known as the United States of America, was raised a little different than most of the other nations.

When he was little, he grew up alongside his brother. It was peaceful. That is, until his people started dying. His mother was one of the first to go.

The small child looked up at his father's face. First Nations rubbed his hair, but also swayed as he walked away. It was impossible. They were taught that they were the land, that none of them could die. So why? Why did their mother die? Why was their father sick?

His brother looked up at him, but silently mourned for their mother.

Not long after, their father died.

The young America decided he would protect him and his brother. However, his brother had run away.

"Stupid ..." America whispered, watching his brother walk in the distance. Now he was almost all alone. The only people remaining were what were left of his tribe. Something had spread a terrible sickness. He'd heard of pale skinned people coming into the land. However, he couldn't be too judgmental; his brother's skin was pretty light in comparison to his own, which was also light in comparison to his mother's and father's.

A few weeks had passed since his family had fallen apart and he stepped through the tall grass, close to the ocean. That was when his life took a turn for the worse.

He met the man named England. England forcibly took him from the world, referred to him as a savage constantly, treated him like a play thing and eventually forced him to become something he wasn't comfortable with.

"Seriously? You expect me to just walk along the streets, around these … people … and just act like you? I can't do that!" he felt his anger boiling.

England smiled, not even phased by the implied insult, "Do be silly, poppet, you'll act like a proper gent and not a silly savage."

"I'm not a damn savage!" America turned, "I am a person, I am the being that represents the lives lost and the lives struggling to survive with this intrusion! My people are hurting."

"These are your people now~" England opened the window, pointing out to the streets.

America looked at them. He was numb to the adults, come over from England and other places across the ocean. However, the children, the new generations being born on the land. He could feel them. It both frightened him and excited him. It meant they would be here a very long time, but that meant they would have to try and coexist.

He sighed.

"I'm going back to England soon, so you'll be here by yourself. Try not to be too out of control while I'm gone~"

America felt like a weight was lifted from his shoulders when England finally left.

Years passed and he heard news of his brother, who had been taken in by another one of the countries across the sea.

Not long after, his control fell under England as well. It was destroying everything.

The last straw came when his people began warring with each other. It was his native people against his new people. Always. They were always attacking each other and starting fights. It pained him, literally, to see them fight.

It didn't help that there was deaths going on in Salem as well. Innocent women were being killed under false accusations of being of the occult.

He hated what the English, French, Dutch and everyone else that was invading his land. Every time they came along, more pain and suffering came with them.

When it came time to declare independence, he helped toss the tea over board the ship. Maybe then people would leave him alone and he could try and mend the bonds between his people. What he hadn't been expecting was the war.

He spoke directly to England over this, knowing he was hurting the man. He really didn't want to hurt him, but then again, it was because of him that his people were sitting in unrest in the first place.

America felt so conflicted.

Finally, he had become his own country, no strings attached, no one holding onto his every move. Unfortunately, his people were still torn. He could literally feel all the different pieces pulling him in different directions. No one was happy.

It was when Abraham Lincoln became the sixteenth president that things changed completely for America.

He was torn in two. This was the first war he couldn't participate in.

"Oh, honey, you're running a fever … I do hope it isn't anything serious …" a woman felt his forehead. She sighed softly and placed a wet cloth on him, "Just rest, okay?"

He nodded. Ever since he fought alongside Washington, he'd been living in the Presidential estate, known to the President as America. He'd explained sixteen times now that there were others like him. Lincoln was intrigued by the idea.

It was one of the reasons he was adamant about bringing the Union back together. He knew the damage everything was causing the nation.

It was during this time, America made several notes about himself. He could no longer deny the other races of people that were now part of him. He was no longer Native American, but just American. His hair was a muddy red color and his eyes blood red, but that was completely uncommon to anyone he'd ever met.

He did not fit into any category of his people, therefore he was his own entity that represented them all.

Secondly, he had to maintain a pure state for his people. Anything that could affect him could be bad for them. So he cut out anything bad for him, no tobacco, no meat, only fresh vegetables and water. It was a bit difficult at first, but it did make him feel better during his sickness.

And lastly, he learned that his people dividing themselves so much gave him terrifying nightmares on top of the debilitating sickness. They weren't regular nightmares either. In fact, they were always from the eyes on one of his citizens.

His most recent one happened to have taken place two days before his birthday. It was the Battle of Gettysburg. He had looked up from the gun in his hands. He could feel the heart thundering in his chest as people fought all around him.

The grey uniform of the Confederate came into sight and the body he inhabited panicked and shot. The soldier before him fell.

Tears rolled down the man's nose as he fell to his knees in front of the soldier he'd killed.

America woke seconds later from the ordeal, tears running down his own face. This brought him to the second part to number three: he hated war. It brought a ton of pain to him and his people.

When things finally settled down, for the most part, his pain was reduced, but the confusion only enhanced. He felt angry at himself, pure hatred. He felt sad, all the time. He felt joy, pity, desperation, and hope. He could tell it was because all of his people were divided in one way or another and while the slaves were freed from their horrific lives and were given opportunity, they were still not welcome among the former Confederate.

The war appeared over, but he still felt the division between everyone and it felt like it was tearing him apart.

Several decades passed, things healing over slowly. He never felt truly recovered from the Civil War, but his people were doing alright for themselves and things were getting better.

His constitution had been revised a few times, each time ensuring that his people could be happy.

He'd kept up on his promise of being clean for his people. No meat, no cigarettes, nothing bad. America felt pretty good about this decision, though he felt his relations with other nations were rocky, especially with his brother, whom was still mad at him from the time they met up again, for the first time since they were separated.

He remembered staring out across the yard as the capitol burned down around him. His brother's eyes met his. There was pent up anger in them.

They hadn't talked since, and things were heating up in Europe. America wanted nothing to do with it, but unfortunately, he was in for more pain.

It was just one of his military spots, but it still hit him hard. Japan had bombed him. He tried to talk his president at the time into talking it out with the Asian country, but instead the man decides to go all out and move their troops into Europe and attack the Axis powers.

This was how America was forced to physically interact with two depressed personifications, one psycho and a nosy Asian.

However, nothing was more mortifying to him than the moment his boss decided to drop a powerful and terrifying weapon down onto Japan; twice.

America had never gotten into such a heated argument with one of his bosses until that moment.

"It had to be done!"

He slammed the door behind him, no longer wanting to hear it.

Present times came and America found himself staring at a television, viewing some reality show on the TV, further driving the stereotyping wedge between his nation. The numbed pain ached in his sides. His people were still warring with other nations.

"That's it, Tony, I'm done. I can't do this anymore …" he grabbed up a baseball bat he kept in his closet and made his way through the dark of night to an old abandoned building. If war was what he would be known for, then let it commence. He slammed the bat into everything he could, smashing up beams and drywall. He let out a loud scream and suddenly it felt right. The pain disappeared and was replaced with quite the dark feeling.

Maybe he would start with his own country? He was tired of trying to make things right. If there was ever a place he could use those weapons of his, it could be here, or perhaps England? Maybe even Russia. If he would be known for war, he would make the next World War huge. He would shock the world, destroy it.

It was the only way to make it all stop. He grinned to himself, walking towards the White House.

* * *

_Interesting? :D I had fun with this one and really got in touch with the America who actually feels his people and strives for their true best, rather than their military feats. WHich honestly have only done a ton harm to the world. _

_~Lady Pyrien_

_ DFTBA!_


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